


Destiel vs. Stucky: Welcome to the Neighborhood

by elliex



Series: Destiel vs. Stucky [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: AU, Case fic is hinted at, Dean's POV, Fluff, Friendly Neighborhood Competitiveness, I don't know Marvel canon beyond the films, M/M, Sam deserves all the awards, Suburbia, Takes SPN canon into consideration, Undercover, Who has the greatest love story?, but this is more fluff than anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5481269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliex/pseuds/elliex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, Cas, and Sam go undercover in a suburban neighborhood. New neighbors Steve and James are anxious to make them feel welcome. </p><p>Dean and James clash from the get-go, but what Dean glimpses between James and Steve makes him long even more for what he and Castiel could have. </p><p>Sam stoically endures it all while drinking copious amounts of wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destiel vs. Stucky: Welcome to the Neighborhood

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Дестиэль Vs Стаки. Добро пожаловать в район](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10312664) by [WTFStarbucks2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTFStarbucks2017/pseuds/WTFStarbucks2017)



 + + + 

 

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the two-story house. The white siding and green shutters need some fresh paint, and the hedge needs trimming, but it looks much too settled and middle-class for Dean’s comfort. (Or so he tells himself.) 

 

“Stop that,” Sam hisses as he walks by carrying a large box. He pauses long enough to add, “Remember? Happy new-home-owner?”

 

“Fine,” Dean mutters. He plasters on a winning smile and heads back towards the truck, where the twitchy realtor is talking to Castiel. Dean notices the tightness around Castiel’s mouth, and his smile slips for a second. He swiftly moves in, grazing his fingertips along Castiel’s back as he takes his place beside him.

 

Dean does not grin when Castiel relaxes at the touch. Nor does any other part of his body instinctively react. _No sir_.

 

“Everything good…” – He wracks his brain a moment before remembering – “Trish?”

 

“I’m a little confused, Mr. Winchester.”

 

“Call me Dean,” Dean says, adding a swoon-worthy wink.

 

Trish’s brow remains furrowed. Castiel’s brow becomes furrowed.

 

Dean holds back a sigh, instead splaying his hand across Cas’s back.

 

“What’s confusing?,” he asks. He steels himself against the temptation to remove his hand when Trish eyes his closeness to Cas.

 

She takes a deep breath. “As I told you before, this is a welcoming neighborhood, but I’m not sure they’re tolerant of…” She trails off.

 

Dean slides his hand along Castiel’s back, settling his hand on his friend’s hip. He ignores Cas’s sharp intake of breath and raises a challenging eyebrow. “Of what?”

 

“Incest,” she says firmly.

 

Dean blinks. _Wait. What?_ He repeats that question aloud: “What?!” He shoots a glance at Cas, who’s giving Trish his squinty-eyed, Old Testament stare.

 

Trish’s eyes narrow. “Castiel said that you were all family. Sam’s called both of you his brothers. Do you care to explain yourself, _Mr._ Winchester?”

 

Dean gapes at her. “I – _what_?,” he repeats.

 

Castiel’s flinty voice answers for him. “We _are_ all family. Dean and Sam are biological brothers; Sam and I consider each other brothers, though we’re not related by blood; and Dean and I…” Cas’s voice trails off, and he meets Dean’s searching gaze.

 

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, Cas. What are we?,” he asks in a voice that’s definitely more husky than he’d intended.

 

“We’re us,” Castiel says firmly, slipping an arm around Dean’s waist and redirecting his attention to the now-red-faced realtor.

 

(Dean does not, _does not_ , grin so broadly that it makes his cheeks hurt….

 

… Actually, yes, he does.)

 

“I – um – I’m sorry, then,” Trish stammers. “For – uh. Um. Assuming.”

 

“You should be,” Castiel says, his voice cold. Dean sees Trish flinch and the subsequent flash of anger at being called out. He knows this situation needs defusing before their cover is entirely blown.

 

“Ah, well. You know what they say when we assume,” Dean says with a smile. He squeezes Cas’s hip hard, and his angel gets the message, smiling tightly instead of speaking.

 

Trish looks puzzled – which is a sight better than angry, Dean thinks. “What do you mean?,” she asks.

 

“Oh, you know, that it makes an ass out of you and me.” He laughs, grateful when Cas and Trish awkwardly join in. Dean uses the moment to take action.

 

“Go help Sam,” he murmurs to Castiel, who offers a genuine, grateful smile as he slips away that _does not_ warm Dean to his toes. (Okay, it totally leaves him toasty.)

 

“So, let’s talk about that inspection. The seller took care of the roof, right?,” Dean asks, steering the conversation to safer subjects.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Dean’s signed the final papers acknowledging that the repairs have been completed to his satisfaction; Trish has left with the security of her commission intact; and the movers have emptied the truck.

 

Dean, Sam, and Castiel wave in what they hope is an appropriate suburbanite fashion.

 

As soon as the truck and realtor are out of sight, all three sag with relief.

 

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Dean exclaims, darting across the loan to retrieve their trusty green cooler from the Impala’s trunk and carry it back to the porch. “Who wants a beer?”

 

“Me,” Sam answers, grabbing one from the ice.

 

“Cas?” Dean holds a beer out to his—friend. _That’s right. Castiel is your friend_ , he reminds himself.

 

“Yes, please.”

 

The three stand on the empty, wraparound porch and drink silently.

 

“Think this is gonna work?,” Dean asks, dubiously surveying his neighbors’ manicured lawns before taking another long swig of his beer.

 

Sam shrugs. “Sure. We’ve gone undercover before. We know what we’re doing.”

 

“This is a long con, though,” Dean says. “We’ve never done anything quite like this before. It could go pear-shaped in about a million ways.” He nudges Cas with his elbow. “How you feeling, buddy?”

 

In perfect imitation of Sam, Cas shrugs. “I’m fine.” Dean frowns at the shadows under Cas’s eyes, though, and reaches out to gently brush a dark curl back from Cas’s forehead.

 

The faint blush on Cas’s cheeks and Sam’s throat clearing make Dean realize what he’s done. He hurriedly stuffs his hand in his front jeans pocket and clears his throat too. “Um. You getting enough sleep?,” he asks Cas.

 

Cas nods, but Dean sees the lie and decides to do something about it. “Well, I’m beat,” he declares. “What do y’all say we get the beds up and take a good, long nap?”

 

“But what about—”Sam starts to protest, but Dean cuts him off with a look. “We’ve got plenty of time to unpack, and _I_ need a nap,” he says, grabbing the green cooler and heading into the house.

 

+

 

A couple of hours later, Sam’s conked out, sprawled across the extra-long, queen-sized mattress and frame that he’d insisted upon. “You guys get the en suite,” he’d argued, “So I at least get this.”

 

Dean had rolled his eyes and ordered the damn thing – It wasn’t his money anyway, so what did he care? (John Smythe of Detroit might care, but not Dean.)

 

Then he’d ordered himself and Castiel the California king memory foam mattress and frame. When Sam side-eyed him, Dean had simply said, “We have to share for this charade to work. And I need my space.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Sam had said. Dean hadn’t cared for his tone, but he’d let it slide.

 

But California wasn’t turning out to be so spacious after all. Dean and Castiel had started out on opposite sides of the bed, and Cas had fallen asleep immediately. Dean had lain there, wide-eyed and awake for over an hour, wondering how this was his life now.

 

In his sleep, Castiel had moved closer. Dean had told himself that turning towards Castiel was natural; he always slept on his right side (didn’t he?). This was about physical comfort, not the yearnings of a treacherous heart. After he’d visually traced the contours of Cas’s face for the tenth time, Dean had forced his eyes shut and told himself to sleep.

 

Now, Dean lays awake in the large room lit yellow by a late-afternoon sun. Castiel’s head is on his chest, Dean’s arm wrapped snuggly around him. How _that_ happened? Dean can’t say.

 

When Castiel murmurs in his sleep and snuggles closer, Dean raises his eyes to the ceiling and prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that this will happen every single time they sleep.

 

Dean rubs his thumb along the soft cotton of Cas’s t-shirt and shuts his eyes. The comfort of Cas’s closeness and even breaths soon lulls Dean back into a doze.

 

+

 

The doorbell’s shrill chime startles Dean awake. It takes him half a second to realize he now has his cheek on Castiel’s chest and a full second to rear upwards and witness Castiel’s equally startled expression.

 

“What is that?” Castiel asks, his voice heavy with sleep.

 

The shrill chime reverberates through the house again, and Dean stumbles to his feet. “Doorbell,” he says, grabbing his gun – only to realize he has no way to conceal it. He grimaces and grabs a knife instead, sticking it in the waistband of his tight boxer briefs.

 

“You’d better be careful with that,” Castiel advises.

 

“Worried about the merchandise, Cas?,” Dean quips, pulling his t-shirt over the knife’s hilt and making sure the blade’s shape isn’t visible through his pants.

 

“I worry about all things Dean-related,” Castiel replies. Startled, Dean meets Cas’s searching gaze. The corner of Cas’s mouth twitches, and Dean can’t hold back his own smile. He takes a half-step back towards the bed just as the doorbell chimes _again._

 

“Goddammit,” he groans, sprinting out of the room and running into an equally out-of-sorts moose.

 

“Thought you weren’t sleepy,” Dean says, shoving his stumbling brother out of his way.

 

“Shut up,” Sam retorts eloquently, shoving Dean into the wall.

 

“Ow,” Dean complains, rubbing his elbow.

 

By the time they get to the foyer, Castiel has opened the door and is greeting their guests.

 

Dean and Sam stumble to a stop. “Cas – how?,” Dean asks.

 

“Back stairs,” Cas answers. He smiles at the two men standing in the doorway. “Come in, would you?”

 

“We don’t want to impose,” says the taller of the two. Dean’s eyes sweep his form appreciatively – from the soles of his loafers to the linen button-up straining across his broad shoulders.

 

“Uh – you won’t be,” Dean says, sticking his hand out. “Hi. Dean Winchester.” He tips his head towards Sam. “That’s my brother, Sam, and – well, you’ve already met Castiel.”

 

“Yes, we have,” the man smiles. “I’m Steve. This is Bu—I mean, this is James.” The other man, who Dean can’t help noticing is also _extremely_ well built, shakes Dean’s hand with a disdain the hunter recognizes.

 

Good. He’s not the only person who hates these social niceties.

 

“Told you they wouldn’t be ready for company,” James says to Steve, who flushes.

 

“You did,” Steve acknowledges. “Sorry for intruding. We should’ve waited until tomorrow, but I remember what it was like our first night, and –”

 

“Yeah you do,” James says with a cheeky grin before shooting a significant look at Dean, who may or may not have been admiring Steve’s chiseled jaw. Dean doesn’t miss the claim in that look or the deepening pink of Steve’s cheeks. _Oh, it’s like that, is it?_

 

“You’re not intruding,” Castiel assures them. “Please, come in.” Castiel opens the door wider and gestures for their guests to follow him.

 

Sam leans against the wall, grinning much too broadly at absolutely nothing. He motions for Dean to go ahead, so Dean follows behind Steve and James. He does _not_ miss that James is eying Castiel’s ass – which looks exceptionally fine in the pair of gym pants that Dean may or may not have purchased because he just _knew_ the fabric would cling tautly in all the right places.

 

 _Oh, hell no_ , he thinks. He deftly slips around James and tugs Castiel towards the oversized leather chair, leaving the matching couch for the other three men. Castiel gives Dean a look of surprise, but he sits beside Dean despite the tight quarters. Dean stretches an arm along the chair’s back, keeping an eye on James the entire time.

 

The other man gives Dean a slow and knowing smile. Dean feels his cheeks grow hot, but he doesn’t move his hand, nor does he drop his eyes. This dude needs to understand that staring at Castiel’s ass is _not okay_ (especially if Dean is going to get the evil eye for staring at Steve’s.)

 

An overly smirky Sam (seriously, what the hell is Sam’s problem today?) takes the casserole that Steve has brought into the kitchen and then claims the empty seat at the end of the couch. Castiel and Steve are talking about the neighborhood and good grocery stores and who knows what else. Dean quietly keeps an eye on James, who quietly keeps an eye on him.

 

“Dean, what do you think?,” Sam asks, jolting Dean out of his stare-down. Dean, of course, has _no idea_ what anyone is talking about.

 

“Um.. what?,” he asks.

 

Sam snorts a laugh, and Castiel interjects, covering for him. “Steve asked if they could cook dinner for us tomorrow.”

 

“You did what?,” James asks Steve.

 

Steve’s brow furrows. “We talked about this, Buck – I mean. James. What gives?”

 

“Nothing,” James mutters, glaring at Dean.

 

Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s thigh. “What do you think? Will you be up for going to their home tomorrow night?”

 

Oh, Dean is sure _something_ is “up” for company, though not in the way Cas hopes. He swallows hard and admonishes himself to think of England. He forces his eyes to look up from Castiel’s tanned hand and sees Steve’s curious gaze. “Um. Sure,” he croaks out. “Thanks?”

 

“No problem,” Steve says. “Moving is such a hassle, and I love to cook.” He inclines his head towards James. “So does this guy – wait till you try his stroganoff.”

 

“I do love stroganoff,” Dean says, taking a leap and covering Castiel’s hand with his own. His heart grows three sizes when Cas turns his hand and laces their fingers together.

 

James grimaces. “You’ve never had stroganoff until you’ve had _my_ stroganoff.”

 

Steve chuckles. “He’s right. James’s stroganoff is one-of-a-kind.”

 

“I’m the best,” James says.

 

Dean narrows his eyes as James reaches for Steve’s hand and laces _their_ fingers together. 

 

Dean can’t stop himself. “Are you really?,” he asks.

 

James rubs his gloved thumb across Steve’s. “Oh yes,” he promises. “ _The_ best.”

 

+

 

The casserole is still warm, so Sam nukes it for five minutes and rustles up some beers and unpacks the forks.

 

“I’ll set those out,” Dean says, taking the beers and forks and arranging them on the coffee table. He and Cas take their seats in the floor, and Sam carefully sets the now-hot dish in the middle of the table.

 

“No plates?,” Castiel asks.

 

“Nah,” Sam says. “That requires more unpacking, and I’m starving.”

 

“Good point,” Castiel answers, digging in.

 

Dean has already scooped up a forkful of the chicken, cheese, mushroom, and bread crumb concoction and shovels it into his mouth. “Oh my god,” he moans. “I’ve gotta get this recipe.”

 

Sam shakes his head at Dean’s effusiveness until he takes a bite and moans himself.

 

Castiel stays quiet as he chews and swallows, but he announces with enthusiasm, “This is _very_ good.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Dean agrees, taking another bite.

 

“Steve is right. James _is_ a wonderful cook.”

 

Dean jerks, his food lodging in his throat. He grabs his beer and drinks half of it in a desperate attempt to keep from choking. Sam whacks him on the back. “You okay?”

 

Dean coughs and clears his throat. “Yeah,” he rasps. “So James made this?”

 

“Yes, didn’t you hear Steve’s story about shredding the chicken with ginsu knives?,” Castiel asks.

 

“Uh. No.” Dean eyes the casserole as if it’s an enemy; that James can cook so well thoroughly annoys him.

 

Sam snorts.

 

“Shut it,” Dean orders his brother.

 

“Sometimes, I worry about your attention span,” Cas says.

 

“You _should_ worry about what his attention’s _on_ ,” Sam mutters.

 

Castiel looks perplexed. “What do you mean?”

 

“Nothing,” Sam says, waving his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Castiel nods and goes back to eating his dinner. Dean glares at Sam, who gives him the “I don’t like how you’re treating Castiel” bitchface.

 

Dean wants to explain it isn’t like that – he might look, but he sure as hell isn’t touching, and that’s _not_ what the thing with James is about anyway.

 

Instead, he consumes over a third of the casserole. He refuses to say anything else about how good the casserole is – or isn’t – which gives him some satisfaction. He feels his brother’s watchful gaze for the rest of the evening, though.

 

+

 

Dean rolls his shoulders in an attempt to stretch his new cardigan. _Cardigan_ , he thinks. _I’m wearing a freaking cardigan like Mr. Rogers._

 

He paces back and forth on the wraparound porch and notices that the new rockers aren’t equi-distant from the table. He moves them and straightens the cushions, taking a moment to admire how the blue contrasts with the white wicker.

 

“Looks good,” Sam says, nodding at the furniture as he steps onto the porch. “Oh man, it’s more chilly than I expected. Let me grab a jacket.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes and scooches the matching table until it’s more perfectly centered on the braided rug.

 

“It looks good,” Castiel observes. He’s wearing his navy peacoat, and Dean is acutely aware of how the coat enhances the blueness of Cas’s eyes.

 

“I like it,” Dean says, fluffing the faux flowers he’d bought to adorn the table.

 

Castiel plucks at Dean’s sleeve. “I meant this. The green really sets off your eyes.”

 

Cas’s sincere compliment brings a lump to Dean’s throat. “Uh, thanks, Cas.” He brushes a finger along Cas’s jaw. “Nice peach fuzz.”

 

“I thought you might enjoy it,” Cas says. That word “enjoy” sends sparks up Dean’s spine, and they stare at one another a long moment. Just as Dean leans infinitesimally closer, Sam interrupts with some aggressive throat clearing.

 

“Uh, here’s your coat,” Sam offers, handing over Dean’s grey wool. Dean snatches it from his brother’s hand and puts it on. “And I picked up a bottle of red wine to take.”

 

“Wine? Ugh. What about beer? _James_ probably prefers microbrews or some shit,” Dean complains.

 

“I’ve got your beer right here,” Cas answers, revealing a six-pack in his left hand.

 

Dean cocks his finger at Castiel. “You’re awesome,” he says with a grin. Castiel smiles back.

 

“You two,” Sam mutters. “C’mon. Let’s go – Steve just turned on the porch light.” Sam locks their own front door and leads the way down the sidewalk. Dean and Cas walk side-by-side, and Dean can’t help noticing that they walk in sync. Their arms brush every so often; the contact makes him smile.

 

It takes two minutes to arrive at Steve and James’s brick home. Dean takes note of the well-tended lawn and the freshly painted window treatments. He also likes the roof’s pattern and wonders if those are specialty shingles or if he can find them wholesale…

 

Steven opens the door before Castiel presses the doorbell. “Welcome,” he says, his wide smile showing off perfectly even, white teeth.

 

“Here, let me take your coat, Castiel,” James offers, stepping forward and suavely maneuvering Cas out of his coat.

 

Dean doesn’t like that one bit, though when Steve reaches for his own collar, he submits well enough. Sam rolls his eyes at all of them and shrugs out of his coat by himself.

 

With their coats neatly hung on the rack, the five of them make their way into the dining room, where a scrumptious spread awaits them. Dean’s mouth waters at the sight of it all, and he starts to say so when he sees James’s smug look. Dean promptly swallows his words. He’s not feeding this dude’s ego.

 

Dean doesn’t say much, but he listens, and he watches. Steve and James move effortlessly around one another, their motions fluid and natural. It’s clear that they’ve been together a long, long time.

 

He looks across the table and meets Castiel’s quizzical gaze. “I’m fine,” he mouths, and takes a large bite of stroganoff to prove his point. The food, much as Dean hates to admit it, is _amazing_.

 

“Am I the best or what?,” James asks.

 

Dean side-eyes him. “I can only say that your stroganoff is pretty damn good.”

 

James harrumphs, and Steve laughs, a bright, full sound that echoes in the room. Dean sees a familiar twinge of hurt in James’s eyes.

 

Later, when James goes to get dessert, Steve follows. Dean watches as Steve presses James against the counter and murmurs something before bending his head. Dean feels the sharp, familiar twinge of envy and looks away when Steve kisses James.

 

“You okay?,” Sam asks, interrupting his reverie. Castiel is giving Dean that concerned look again.

 

“Yes, I’m fine,” Dean says, pushing his chair back and tossing his napkin on the table. “I just need the restroom.”

 

“Down the hall and to the left,” Steve answers as he reclaims his seat at the table. James is right behind him, carrying a pie that he sets reverently on the table.

 

Dean takes note of the carefully framed photos of faraway lands that line the hall, of the simple, clean lines of the bathroom fixtures, and the indulgent line of products lining the counter. He enjoys the scent of sandalwood vanilla that lingers on his skin.

 

When Dean returns to the dining room, Sam’s taken his seat, and he and James are examining and discussing an antique gun that had been hanging on the wall. Dean slides into the now-empty seat beside Castiel, who cuts him a generous wedge of pie.

 

“It’s your favorite,” Castiel says, setting the saucer in front of him.

 

Dean sees the pecan topping and blinks, his vision suddenly blurry with tears. “It is,” Dean confirms. His soft smile garners a matching one from Castiel, and maybe Dean’s emboldened by what he glimpsed in the kitchen, or maybe he simply can’t deny himself any longer. Whatever the reason, Dean leans over and brushes his lips against Cas’s temple.

 

Castiel smiles brilliantly, his eyes crinkling in the way that Dean loves to see.

 

The room goes starkly quiet; Dean glances around and sees Sam staring, James watching expressionlessly, and Steve smiling.

 

Dean chooses that moment to take a huge bite of pie because, really, pie solves everything. (Plus, if he’s chewing, he can’t give into the temptation to kiss Castiel again.)

 

“So, how long have you two been together?,” Steve asks.

 

Steve’s question sparks a knot of anxiety in Dean’s gut. He chews more slowly and looks to Castiel. With his eyes trained on Dean, Castiel answers, “We met several years ago and bonded immediately. We’ve only recently become… something else.”

 

“Not one for labels?,” Steve asks.

 

“No,” Castiel answers, giving Dean a fond look. “We prefer to make it up as we go.”

 

Dean’s anxiety dissipates. He swallows and puts his fork down, before reaching for Castiel’s hand. Squeezing gently, Dean murmurs, “That we do.”

 

“Sounds like us,” Steve says. “Battle forged and together despite all odds.”

 

James nods. “We are extremely inspirational.” He reaches for Steve’s hand and raises it to his mouth, kissing the inside of Steve’s wrist.

 

Dean doesn’t miss Steve’s shudder of want, nor does he miss the intense desire he suddenly feels to make Castiel shudder like that.

 

When James raises his eyes, the knowing twinkle makes it clear that he’s fully aware of what he’s doing and how Dean’s reacting. He meets Dean’s eyes and smirks.

 

Dean straightens in his chair. _Okay_ , he thinks. _If this is how you want to play..._

 

“So you two are the love story of the ages?,” he asks, gesturing between them.

 

“Well, I don’t – ” Steve fumbles a bit, clearly discomfited by the topic.

 

“Yes,” James answers curtly.

 

“Oh really?,” Dean asks. He sets his elbow on the table and props his chin up with his hand. “Tell us more.”

 

“Dean,” Castiel murmurs, so low that only Dean can hear. Dean doesn’t look at him, though. He wants to know what this dude’s deal is, and James is itching to tell him.

 

Sam settles back in his chair and drains his glass of wine. He refills his glass and passes the bottle over to Castiel.

 

James snorts. “He saved me, from torture unimaginable.”

 

“Fancy that,” Dean muses. “Castiel saved me, too.”

 

“From Nazis?”

 

“From demons.”

 

They look at one another, and James cracks a small smile. “Same thing, I suppose,” he acknowledges.

 

“In some ways,” Dean admits. “But trust me, you don’t want to spend decades in hell.”

 

“You don’t want to spend decades as someone’s brainwashed assassin, either.”

 

Dean regards James. “Huh,” he says, though he’s unwilling to admit aloud that maybe they have more in common than he thought.

 

“Bucky – I mean, James – saved me, too,” Steve says. “I was adrift and alone in this world that I didn’t understand. He grounded me.”

 

“That sounds familiar,” Castiel observes, smiling shyly at Dean. “Dean taught me an entirely new way of living.”

 

Dean refuses to think of what else he’d like to teach Castiel or else this dinner party is going to become well and truly awkward. He settles for smiling and taking several gulps of beer instead.

 

“So you were a brainwashed assassin?,” Dean asks James. 

 

“Yes. Until Steve broke through my training.” James stares off into space, and whatever he’s remembering, Dean can tell it’s not good. He takes note of the haunted expression in James's eyes, his always-gloved left hand. Dean now knows there's a much larger story here.

 

“I told you then, and I’m telling you now: I’m with you till the end of the line.” Steve’s voice is low, urgent, and Dean feels like an eavesdropper. Sam’s emptying the wine bottle into his glass and not making eye contact with anyone, but Castiel is watching James thoughtfully.

 

“Were you supposed to kill Steve?,” Castiel asks.

 

“Cas,” Dean says, shaking his head. He already feels some guilt at taking the conversation in this direction; he doesn’t think it should go further.

 

“No, it’s okay,” James says, taking a breath. “Yes but – clearly – I didn’t. I just – I knew that I couldn’t do it, no matter what my programming had been.”

 

Castiel nods, his expression forlorn in a way that Dean rarely sees. It worries him. “What’s wrong?,” Dean whispers.

 

“I’ll explain later,” Castiel whispers back.

 

Steve and James are still murmuring to each other, and as Dean watches them, he thinks of all the times that only he could reach Castiel – and vice versa. He doesn't want to have this conversation in front of near-strangers and his brother, so he stands and begins to gather the dessert dishes.

 

Castiel helps. Steve initially protests at their clearing, but Dean waves him off. “You two should – get some air or something.” Dean recognizes James’s “I’ve revealed too much of myself” expression and knows that this dude – assassin or asshole or whatever – needs a moment away from the strangers in his house. Steve mouths, “Thank you,” and tugs James into the living room.

 

“Want to help, Sammy? I’ll let you dry,” Dean offers.

 

Sam is glassy-eyed. “Did you decide?”

 

Dean is puzzled. “Decide what?”

 

“Whose romance has the biggest penis.” Sam giggles – _giggles_. Dean can’t believe his ears.

 

“What?,” he asks his inebriated little brother.

 

“You know,” Sam waves his hand. “Their love story; your love story.” He gestures between Dean and Castiel. Dean looks back over his shoulder, grateful that Castiel is at the sink, rinsing the dishes. He hopes his angel isn’t hearing this. “Which one’s the best, the biggest, et-cet-er-a.” Sam drawls that last part and collapses into another giggle fit.

 

Steve pops his head into the room. “All okay in here?”

 

“Yeah – little brother just got toasted is all,” Dean answers.

 

Steve looks surprised. “Really? As big as he is? I never would’ve pegged him for a lightweight.”

 

“Me either,” Dean admits. “We’re good here.” Steve nods and returns to James. Dean gathers up the last of the silverware and takes it to Cas. When he returns for the glasses, Sam’s head is on the table, and he’s snoring softly.

 

Castiel’s loading the dishwasher, when Dean brings him the glasses. Cas looks over Dean’s shoulder and sees Sam. “He okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says, watching as Castiel gracefully arranges the glassware.

 

“What now?,” Castiel asks, reminding Dean that he’s still relatively new to all of this.

 

“Detergent,” Dean answers, looking under the sink and finding the capsules. He pops one out and puts it into the container. Cas shuts the door, and Dean programs it. “There,” he announces as the appliance gurgles to life. “All done.”

 

“Do we need to clean the table?” Castiel wipes the counters down before spraying the sink with cleaner and beginning on it.

 

“Already done,” Dean says. He sees the tension in Castiel’s movements and takes the plunge. “What’s up? You said you’d tell me.”

 

Castiel looks around the room, but no one’s around; they can’t even hear Steve and James talking. (Dean figures they’re not exactly using their words right now.)

 

“I just… I relate to what James was saying. About being brainwashed to kill Steve?”

 

“You thinking of the crypt? Because I already told you, that’s water under the bridge, man.”

 

“No,” Castiel says. “I never told you that … that…” He falters and his shoulders hunch.

 

Before he even realizes he’s moved, Dean has his arms around Castiel’s waist, his chin hooked over Cas’s shoulder. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

 

Cas nods and swallows. “Naomi. She – she brainwashed me, forced me to kill thousands of copies of you until she was certain I could get it right.”

 

“But I’m still here, so she failed.”

 

Cas nodded. “The crypt – that was supposed to be when I…”

 

“When you killed me,” Dean finished. “But Cas,” he presses his lips to the shell of Castiel’s ear. “You didn’t. We broke the connection. Remember?”  


“Yes, of course, but I was supposed to—”

 

“But you didn’t.” Dean presses his cheek against Cas’s and holds the other man tightly. “You didn’t. And then when the Mark told me to kill you, _only you_ could reach me. And I didn’t. And now we’re here, together.”

 

“We’re on a case and working a long con,” Castiel says.

 

Dean jerks. “Is that all this is to you?”

 

Castiel turns in his arms. “Absolutely not.” He defiantly meets Dean’s eyes. “Is that all this is to you?”

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

Castiel’s eyes fall to Dean’s lips; he licks his own. Dean bends forward, and their lips _just brush_ when a loud crash startles them both.

 

“Dammit,” Dean mutters. He slides his thumb across Cas’s bottom lip. “Later,” he promises.

 

They maneuver Sam up from the floor, but it’s a feat. James and Steve help, and while they are freakishly strong, Sam is six-foot-five of dead weight. They carry him into the living room and dump him unceremoniously on the sofa.

 

“He seems stable,” Steve observes. “He can stay there tonight, if that’s okay with you two.”

 

Dean looks at Castiel and sees a spark of – whatever this is between them – flare in those blue eyes. “Yeah, um. Yeah. That’s fine with us. Right, Cas?”

 

“Yes, it is. Though you might want to put a wastebasket by his—”

 

“Way ahead of you, Cas,” James says, setting a plastic waste bin near Sam’s head. Steve throws a blanket over the moose, while Dean and Castiel slip into their coats.

 

“Thank you for having us,” Castiel says. “I sincerely hope we can do this again, soon.”  


“Yeah,” Dean says, shaking first Steve’s hand, then James’s. “It was... fun.”

 

James squeezes Dean’s hand especially tight. “Yes, we’ll do it again,” he says. “You still have to admit that I’m the best.”

 

Dean smirks. “Now, how can I do that when _I’m_ the best?”

 

Steve and Castiel share a look and an eye roll before Cas ushers Dean out into the cold, and Steve pulls James to his side.

 

Hand-in-hand, Dean and Castiel walk silently to their home. Dean digs his set of keys out with his free hand and unlocks the door. He puts an arm up, barring Castiel from opening the door though.

 

“Dean, it’s cold,” Castiel observes. “Why can’t we go in?” He runs a finger under the wreath that cleverly covers warding. “Nothing’s been through here.”

 

Dean bites his lip, considering. If he does this – what will Cas say? What will he do? Dean tells himself it’s long past time to nut up. He pulls Castiel close and kisses him hard on the lips –it’s _just_ lips, but a warmth coils low in Dean’s belly.

 

“We’re doing this right, Cas,” he murmurs. He takes a deep breath and sweeps Cas up, staggering a bit because the guy is all muscle. Stumbling, Dean carries him over the threshold.

 

Castiel slides from his arms and silently pushes the door closed. He shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the rack.

 

Dean wonders if he’s upset Cas – maybe Castiel wanted to carry him? At the thought, Dean’s breath hitches. He’d be more than okay with that, he realizes.

 

His brain short circuits when Castiel presses him against the door – this time, their kiss is lips, teeth, and tongues. Cas pushes his coat off, tosses it over the back of a chair, and starts on the buttons of Dean’s cardigan.

 

Dean gets with the program then. He removes Cas’s tie, unbuttons his shirt, and pulls his undershirt off. Dean’s fingertips trace the cords of his angel’s neck, ghost across his bare chest.

 

They’ve made their way to the stairs when Dean grabs Cas by the hips and pulls him close; they rut against each other until they're moaning the other’s name. Deft fingers undo Dean’s pants, and he less deftly returns the favor. Shoes are kicked off and pants scattered along the stairs.

 

When they finally stumble into their room, Dean freezes. The bed looms, and Dean feels shy and hesitant. Castiel holds his gaze as his fingers hook the waistband of Dean’s briefs and inches them down.

 

“Dean.” Cas’s voice is pitched low; its timbre resonates with something deep inside of Dean. He swallows hard and doesn’t look away.

 

“Cas.”

 

“Put your hands on me, Dean.”

 

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel’s torso, one hand splaying across Cas’s back and the other cupping a very firm, completely bare, butt cheek. Dean realizes with a shock that _he_ is the most-dressed person in the room – a realization that remains true for about a second longer.

 

Skin-to-skin, the moment hangs suspended in time. Dean thinks it’s rather poetic that they’re only now baring their naked bodies after baring their souls so long ago. Instead of vocalizing that, he kisses Castiel softly and walks him backwards to the bed.

 

Together, they sink into the memory foam. Later, when Castiel sinks into him, Dean knows that this – _this_ – is forever.

 

+

 

Though Dean rather wants to rub James’s face in the greatness of his and Castiel’s love, he figures (rightly) that Cas will smite him if he tells tales out of the bedroom. In the pre-dawn hours, as he and Cas post-coitally nuzzle and snuggle, Dean magnanimously (if he does say so himself) decides that he can live without one-upping James.

 

For now, anyway.

 

**To be continued...**

**Author's Note:**

> What I know about Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, I've learned from the films. Many liberties are taken. 
> 
> The next installment will focus on a holiday decorating battle between James and Dean, and I hope to post by Dec. 25th. 
> 
> [Edit 12/27: sickness & traveling consumed my writing time. The next installment is nearly done, but I won't be able to post until 12/29. If you're looking for it, apologies for the delay! It *is* coming - and I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it!]
> 
> This is entirely new for me - I've never written a multi-fandom fic like this before! If you read, I hope you enjoyed. It was certainly fun to write :)


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